


tissue-thin lies

by HelloAmHere



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, LITERALLY, M/M, Schmoop, Sickening Domesticity, a lot of mention of phlegm like you should not read this if you are not prepared for that, being dramatic about very mild illnesses, did I manage to sneak Zayn into a fic that doesn't even have Zayn AND doesn't have a plot, extreme schmoop tbh, in this house we respect star trek voyager, you know me you know the answer is yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAmHere/pseuds/HelloAmHere
Summary: Louis has a cold but he's FINE.





	tissue-thin lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to be a tumblr drabble but it got too long. Please treat it, emotionally and spiritually and otherwise, as a tumblr drabble because my friends this is the most self-indulgent and meandering little thing ever and I wrote it, obviously, while I had a really bad cold and wanted to complain about it. Totally unbeta'd.

Louis is trapped and he is, characteristically, quite cranky about it. He’s stranded, flat on his back on the couch in the living room, which is an insult on the face of it because the couch has been slotted for replacing the last few months and every moment that he spends on it is a cruel reminder of the fact that he hasn't gotten around to it. Mostly it’s because the grey flat buttons dig into his back, but it’s also because the couch belonged to Zayn. Zayn moved out when Zayn got into that excellent MFA program and left, couches and canvases of practice art in his wake. Traitor. It had looked _artistic,_ the couch had, and Zayn had hung on Louis’ arm at the furniture store and made eyes about it. Neither of them had had any idea how to furnish a real adult apartment and Zayn had often gotten his way when it came to decor because Louis had been more concerned with setting up the Xbox and his four-foot Hulk statue in the living room.

Zayn had loved the Hulk statue. Zayn had been the best roommate in every respect except for couch selection, because _artistic_ now means buttons digging into Louis’ thigh every time he twitches in the one half-side, half-back position he’s found that keeps him from coughing so much.

The entrapment, in pieces: obviously the couch is the worst, but also the room is cold, the heating is expensive, the stove is far away, the bathroom is far away, his stomach hurts, his throat hurts, the food is unappealing, and he’s relatively certain that if he tries to stand, he’ll fall to the floor like limp noodles. The back channels of his fucking _nose_ hurt, trailing uncomfortably deep into his head, parts of your body that you’re really not supposed to feel.

Louis is going on the third day of Feeling Like Death and he’s admitted, for a grand total of the past twenty minutes, that he is in fact genuinely and actually come down with something. He’s sick. He’s trapped neatly between all the things he wants and his inability to move. Dayquil does nothing to cut the haze.

Tea might help. A damp flannel might help. Death might help. He wants to eat something, but all of the food on planet earth is disgusting. Louis threads his fingers together and tries to gauge whether they’ve gone a little bit swollen under the unappealing influence of this very bad cold.

Zayn would have made him tea and poured half a bottle of honey in it. Louis is pretty sure he doesn’t even have a bottle of honey anymore. Zayn would have popped on the projector and lowered the blinds and put on something daffy like _Star Trek Voyager._ Zayn would have put tissues on the foot table they kept in the middle of the living room next to the too-flat grey couch. Louis would've let himself moan to Zayn and exactly no one else in the world, and Zayn would've ignored it but he would've stayed around until Louis wasn't dying anymore, and it would've all been ok.  

Louis hates being sick alone. Louis hates being _alone._ Louis can't believe he went to the monumental effort of training himself to actually do his dishes and laundry and all only to end up the sole occupant of a disturbingly clean apartment. The sole, _dying_ occupant. He's left the tissues in the bathroom and is gauging just how long he can go without retrieving them. Louis sniffs and earns himself another two minutes to stare at the ceiling and ask himself whether it’s normal to feel the liquid inside of his own ears. Do ears have liquid in them? Something about balance, isn’t it? He’s got a minute before he needs another tissue or he could just resign himself to drowning in a flood of his own nose wastewater and frankly, he might.   

There’s a banging at the door, loud and incoherent. Louis jolts, and sneezes, and wipes his face with his sleeve, and says _fuck,_ and calculates the odds that he’ll be able to fight off a burglar and doesn’t like the answer, unless he contagions the burglar to death and the cold is fast-acting enough that the burglar dies on the way out, a pile of phlegm underneath Louis’ tv, or whatever he’s here to steal.

Louis would be dead too, but that seems inevitable at this point.

“Hi,” says Harry, from the hall, taking off his shoes. “Sorry for the noise, fell down in the hallway, you should really get that loose board taken care of, you know!”

Louis says _fuck_ again, but more quietly.

“The tv’s not even worth it,” Louis calls, and coughs halfway through, and the jig is up. What idiot gave Harry a key four months ago, and why did said idiot move two hundred miles away instead of staying in the little bedroom down the hall from Louis so that Louis could kill him for it? Either manually, or by infecting him with his cold, whichever came first.

“Baaaaabe,” Harry drawls, slouching into the living room with his massive hands shoved into his small pockets, “Are you sick? Is that why you weren’t texting me back? I’ve been worried.”

“Nope,” Louis says, and sneezes. It’s a bad one, too. It’s a fucking terrible sneeze, uncontrolled and mouth open. The back of his throat throbs. _Death take me now,_ he thinks grimly.

Harry sexy-slouches over to the couch. Harry’s the type of person who can do that. He’s in his lightest wash skinny jeans and a rose-gold shirt that reflects light around the room from tiny yellow crystals sewn into the hems. His hair today is a bundle of brown curls pulled into a pink elastic, and he’s got a lone starbucks straw hanging out the corner of his mouth. He’s a bit flushed around the edges, like he’s spent most of this warm spring morning out in the sun, tan and pink across his cheeks, bringing out the green of his eyes. He’s utterly ridiculous and he’s a fantastic dream of a human being.

Louis gazes up at his boyfriend of three months with the resignation of one for whom the bell has tolled.

“You weren’t supposed to _come over,”_ Louis says. It was good while it lasted, he supposes.

“Why the hell didn’t you say you were sick?” Harry asks, around the straw, no frappe in sight. By now there are these mundane little patterns that have added up into knowing things about Harry in a way that feels automatic: that Harry runs in the morning and likes naps but only on weekends, that he gets a mocha chip and drinks it within three blocks from the cafe but then keeps the straw forever. He’s just chewing it, and his eyes look big and soft and thoughtful. Louis can’t bear to look at him so he stares at the ceiling instead.

“‘M’not,” he says. Or maybe a frog said it, it’s hard to tell the difference.

Harry plops down on the couch and keeps looking at Louis even though _nobody_ should look at Louis right now and he’s breaking the sanctity of _impending death._ Leave a man his dignity.

Harry pokes at Louis’ toes. Louis hisses and curls them under the blanket.

“Came over cuz you weren’t texting me back about tonight and I missed you, and apparently it’s a good thing I did,” Harry says. His eyes are still soft but they’re also calculating. Louis opens his mouth but a sneeze comes out.

Harry gets up, goes to the bathroom, and brings back the tissue box. Louis tries not to cry about it.

“Thanks, I was just gonna do that,” Louis says, blowing. It comes out a feeble honk. He crumples the tissue up in a ball in his palm, like he can magic away the evidence.

“Uh huh,” Harry says, sitting back down on the couch near Louis’ feet. Louis gingerly moves them further in. “Have you even gotten up today?”

“Sure,” Louis says, “I pissed like, four hours ago. Monumental effort. Just having a bit of a quiet day.”

“Babe,” Harry says, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were sick.”

Louis is, right now, a parasitical body of competing viruses that are keeping him from doing anything. He’s been wearing the same loose purple plaid pajama pants for the last two days and he’s pretty sure he’s got tissue fibers in his unshaven scruff. His palm is starting to get a little sweaty and he’s hoping that Harry doesn’t look behind the couch, where there’s a flotilla of discarded tissues beginning to resemble that giant plastic island of garbage floating in the ocean. He saw it on a youtube binge in the middle of the night, last night, right after thirty minutes of skincare videos that had him dangerously close to a big sephora order before he realized his credit card was across the bedroom and might as well be on Mars. 

“Did you know there’s a giant plastic island of garbage floating in the ocean?” Louis asks.

“Yes,” Harry says, moving his hand over the top of the blanket to the mound of Louis’ feet, and finding one of them, rubbing the ankle bone through the fleece. “I do know, because you sent me that video at three o’clock in the morning, and you also asked, and I quote, if I thought Origins was plastic garbage or if you needed a new emulsion.”

“Oh, did I?” Louis says. Harry’s picking at the fleece and worming his hand underneath it and it’s making Louis squirm but he’s not totally sure how to strategize this situation without drawing even more attention to his current weirdness.

“Why didn't you tell me you were sick?” Harry asks.

“I didn't send you that video, did I? I don't remember that,” Louis says.

“You sent it to me, and Zayn, and somebody named Maggie, who I think you work with,” Harry says.

“Oh,” Louis says, dabbing at his nose with a tissue. “Huh. Maggie has great skin. Like she needs an emulsion.”

“Lou. Why didn’t you just say you were sick?”

“Because I’m a pathetic needy _wanker_ when I’m sick, and I was going to get _over_ it before you _saw me_ and now you’re _here_ and you’re _ruining it!”_ Louis wails, into another tissue. He’s already gone through five and it's too much for his fist to hold anymore. _And disinhibited,_ apparently being sick does that, too.

“I’m your _boyfriend,”_ Harry says, scooting closer on the couch and wrapping his hand fully around Louis’ ankle. Louis throws his tissue at the floor, malevolently. He’s in one of Harry’s oversized t-shirts and he wasn’t planning on Harry ever knowing that Louis had dragged it through a snot-ridden warzone.

“I'm not gonna have sex with you,” Louis croaks, glaring, because he's disgusting and angry and repulsive. He'd rather cut to the point so Harry can _leave_ and he can get back to being a functional boyfriend _later,_ after he solves breathing without feeling like he's gonna choke and managing to swallow spit without whimpering.  

“No offense,” Harry says, “But that's really not crossing my mind right now.”

He's sat dangerously close on the couch and he's got that look in his eyes that says he's going to reach out any second and maybe try to _touch Louis more_ at which point Louis is afraid that even Harry's obliviousness will puncture and he'll see Louis for the loose-kneed, puffy-skinned, throat-disintegrated monstrosity that he is, no longer the elfin firecracker of a boyfriend who's been so far very very good at keeping Harry's flame with relentless energy and carefully timed blowjobs.

Louis sits up, scoots his feet away from Harry's notoriously wandering fingers, and tucks them under himself. He blinks at Harry and tries hard to swallow a sneeze. He’s only moderately successful.

“M’fine,” he mutters.

Harry scoots closer. Louis scoots in parallel, deep into the corner of the couch, dislodging a pillow and putting it between them. Harry plucks the pillow out of his weakened hands and frowns at him.

“Babe,” Harry says, in that _be reasonable_ tone that Louis has heard one too many times over the last three months and usually the context of Harry doing something epically Harry and epically awful like getting Louis to duet _A Whole New World_ from Aladdin on a Thursday karaoke night, three peanut-butter-shots to the wind.

“Go _away,”_ Louis sniffs, scrubbing his face a little, “It’s not fair, I’m much better looking in real life.”  

Harry snorts and drops his offensively long legs right into Louis’ personal, contagious, sniffle-ridden corner of the couch, smashes up against Louis with his thighs and then pulls him into his lap. It’s beautiful and comforting and Louis doesn't have a prayer of resisting. Louis is still sweaty and sick in his gross clothes and his hair is sticking up every which way. Harry smells like Starbucks, like whipped cream, like Harry's recognizable chapstick and deodorant and like heaven. Or Louis is having an olfactory hallucination, because he’s pretty sure he actually can’t smell anything anymore. 

“Babe,” Harry says, hand in Louis’ hair, tucking him into his chest, “Being sick doesn’t make you pathetic, you loon. What the fuck? What’s the plan, you never catch a cold for our whole relationship? You languish here without tissues forever? God.”

Louis manages the tiniest of shrugs. Harry’s hands are cradling and warm and his lap is wildly comfortable. Louis’ throat still hurts and he’s still dying but it’s more like dying in a sexy field of flowers instead of a solitary apartment where you’ve been left to die by uncaring best friends who scampered off to become Picasso, or whatever.

“I mean,” he says.

“Oh my god, that _was_ your plan,” Harry says. He’s stroking up and down Louis’ back though, so he can’t be all that mad. Louis feels soothing little pricks of comfort in every spot that Harry touches. His whole body is sore but now Harry is comfortable and clean and _here._

“I wasn’t going to _never get sick,”_ Louis says, “I was just never going to tell you.”

Harry pulls him in closer. It’s a genuine squeeze, like a sideways hug, but Louis can feel that he’s being careful about it too, which is saying something because Harry is a lot of very tender things toward Louis but he’s not particularly careful by nature, and he’s given to ferocious outpourings of bodily affection that have been known to leave accidental bruises on some people’s arms and accidentally knock them into kitchen islands, sometimes. Harry is always very sorry about it, but, one can’t date Harry Styles without a buddhic acceptance of the accident-prone life.

“But I want you to tell me things,” Harry says, syrupy-sweet.

Louis reflects. He squints upwards suspiciously. Harry’s looking down at him with a bit of a smile and the words _let’s break up now that I know you’re gross_ aren’t coming out of his mouth or anything. Louis is really, truly gross. He can’t recall the last shower he had. His hair is sticking to his forehead.

“Maybe I’m a little sick,” Louis admits.

“I know, babe, but I’ve got you,” Harry says. It’s still got an undercurrent of teasing but it’s sinking into Harry’s low voice. He’s talking soothingly long and slow, the tone Louis likes to call his _molasses voice,_ the one he uses when it’s been a really bad day and Louis is being particularly obnoxious and it’s obvious when Harry’s doing it but Louis can’t help it, it still works. He feels his eyes drooping. It always works.

 

***

 

Louis wakes up to the unmistakable sound of Janeway’s frustration with incompetence and Harry talking to Louis’ mum. He blinks, and tries to clear the frog out of his throat, which takes a few goes but eventually happens.

He’s tucked up in bed with the summer comforter. Harry must have carried him in here altogether, which is frankly impressive given that Louis doesn't remember getting his head banged into any doorframes. The bed had still had the winter comforter on the previous night, because it had been way too hot. Harry must have pulled the new one out of the hallway closet. 

 _Star Trek Voyager_ is playing quietly on the tv in his bedroom, somewhere in the middle of season two. Louis feels better immediately, pulled back out from the grave through the miracle of sleep.

“I know, right?” Harry says from just outside the door, and Louis frowns. Harry and his mum get on like a house on fire that also enjoys talking about Louis’ behavior just a little bit too much. He kicks off the comforter and wraps the spare fleece throw around his shoulders and pauses the tv (Janeway, midrant, deserves better than to be ignored). He wanders into the hallway on shaky feet to stare accusingly at Harry.

Harry’s changed into one of the thin basic t-shirts he’s taken to leaving in Louis’ dresser, a dark red one, and he’s leaning against the wall. His whole face gets brighter when he sees Louis, and it makes Louis’ chest hurt in a different way from the way it’s been hurting these past few days.

The very first night that Louis met Harry, they’d been all out at a bar. They'd flirted from the get-go, Louis all jabs and one liners, Harry all dumb puns and big laughs. Harry’d gone up to fetch more drinks and Zayn had nudged Louis on the shoulder with his Zayn eyebrows that meant, how about it? Louis had watched Harry all the way to the bar, had watched everybody else watch Harry all the way to the bar, and said, _people that beautiful, you don’t get to keep, you know?_  

Harry had thought differently. That night, kissing Louis with a biting tease in the back of a shared cab back to their apartment to play games with Zayn and the others until early in the morning. That week, getting Louis’ number and going for a coffee that turned into a lunch that turned into a dinner. That month, breathless and fierce and exploratory in both of their bedrooms, in hallways of bars and unexpected park corners.

And now they've been boyfriends three months and ten days. But still. Sometimes, Louis thinks, that first impression lingers.

Harry stretches out a hand and waves Louis closer. Louis can hear the faint sound of his mum’s voice on the phone, high and laughing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry says, folding his arm over Louis’ shoulders and pulling him into the crook under his armpit and along his side. Louis sighs, lets himself slide into it. His ears feel clogged and weird but the sleep brought about a massive improvement.

“It’s absolutely suspicious when he’s so quiet, I should’ve known,” Harry says. He ruffles up the back of Louis’ head.

“Are you ratting me out?” Louis says, throat raw but loud, loud enough to make his mum laugh. Harry tells Louis’ mum he loves her and gets the phone in his pocket all before Louis can muster the energy to wrest the phone away. 

They've been boyfriends, officially, for three months, which isn’t normally the time frame in which Louis introduces people to his family (normally, he doesn’t really get to the time frame where he introduces people to his family). Harry met Louis’ mum over FaceTime one week in when she called Louis’ phone and Harry absent-mindedly answered it while he was making blueberry muffins without a shirt on. Apparently they say goodbye with _I love you._

Louis hasn't said that yet. It’s a near thing every time Harry makes muffins, though. 

“I can’t believe you called my mother, have you no shame,” Louis says.

“Just getting the professional consult. I can’t believe you’re so bad at being sick when your mum’s a nurse,” Harry says. His hand moves towards Louis’ waist and Louis crunches his elbows in around the side. He's probably sweated through the underarms of this shirt twice over. Harry likes to thumb at his soft love handles and Louis is just absolutely not in the mood for that.

“She says you’ve always been like this. Says you used to lock your door and try to go to school with a hundred degree fever.”

Louis blows his nose into the spare tissue he’d had the foresight to carry out with him. He tucks it away in his palm, just managing to not throw it on the floor. Harry is looking down at him and he looks dangerously fond. Louis scowls.

“So she was around sick people all the live-long day, wasn’t she? Like she needed more of them.”

“Come on,” Harry says, nudging and then partially supporting Louis’ weight off the wall, walking him into the bathroom. Louis sighs, dramatically.

“Shower, more meds, food, and then we’re gonna curl up with the tv." 

“Called my mum, unbelievable,” Louis says, “Thought that was against the code of boyfriendship.”

“Would that be the code that includes things like not taking video of me drunk and sending it to my sister?” Harry says, pinching Louis right through his baggy pajamas, but only softly. Louis still yelped.

“Different, Gemma needed blackmail to get you to come with us to the match,” Louis mutters, shuffling down the hall at the galloping pace of a geriatric elephant seal. He has to stop once for another noseblow, and then Harry plucks the tissues right out of his hand and Louis squeaks in outrage.

Louis swallows hard when they get to the bathroom which is a rookie mistake because it makes his throat throb again.

“Look. You honestly don’t have to be here, it’s boring, I’m bored with myself and I’m the one who’s actually living with me, you can go,” Louis says. It comes out with a scratch through it. 

“Really,” he adds, heart thumping hard and fast, neck hot, too sick or too anxious or both.

“Shut up,” Harry says, taking the fleece and sticking it under his arm. He rolls his eyes and it quiets Louis’ heart even though he doesn't know how or why.

Harry’s already turned the water to the exact right temperature. Louis is pretty sure he’ll get picked up from behind and thrown in the tub if he doesn’t get in so he does. He's worried for a frantic second that Harry will get in with him--they always shower together when they're together, Harry _loves_ a good shower makeout-handjob combo and he has a secret fondness for getting his head shampooed--but Harry just points aggressively at the luxe, mint-flavored green jelly he brings over as a backup body wash because he despises Louis’ cheap soap, and pulls the curtain. Louis hears him bustling around the apartment doing god knows what. Falling down at least once, given that it's Harry. 

It's…really nice, really, really nice. Louis can feel his mind coming back online. Harry's weird green jelly is squishy and froths up in water and reminds him of the jello cups he used to get in middle school lunches. He rubs it into his upper back and shoulders and down his thighs, marginally more human with every passing second. The shower mist helps ease his sinuses. He blows out a horrid mass between his hands and feels like he's shed a zombie brain or something. He washes away two days of grossness and aching muscles and bad, solitary nights.

There's a fluffy warm towel on the counter when Louis steps out, and fresh pajamas, which is a feeling so clean and lovely Louis feels sort of stupidly emotional about it. Harry’s put socks out on the bath mat, thick and fluffy and gold-colored. Louis stares at himself in the mirror for a minute. Everything is always so slow when he’s sick, like he’s surrounded by invisible bubbles of spaciness that slip over him at the slightest provocation. The skin around his eyes is puffy and he’s got a spot working out the predictable side he always gets them, on the right and underneath of his chin, but it’s ok. He smells of mint and the skin around his nose is raw and his stomach angrily reminds him just how hungry he is.

“I'm aliiiive,” Louis calls down the hall, throatily.

“Good,” Harry calls back, “I’m definitely not eating this soup myself. Can't stand soup, really. Like a decaying meal, kinda.”  
  
"Tempting," Louis says. Harry sticks out his tongue, and Louis almost sticks out his tongue back but he considers what his tongue might look like right now, and keeps it tucked firmly back in his mouth. 

Harry’s perched on a kitchen stool putting olives into a sandwich. It’s all fancy bread and several cheeses and a meat with unnecessary spices on it. Louis doesn’t let his eyes focus on it and makes a gagging noise. Harry gestures toward a bowl of soup on Louis’ end of the table:

“Wait,” Louis says, spoon in the air, looking down at his new pajama pants. His brain is still so foggy and slow. The pants that Harry'd left in the bathroom are the ones in a cozy blue fabric printed with small puppies and rabbits, and they were definitely in the dirty laundry as of this morning.

“Did you do my laundry?” 

Harry shrugs.

Louis looks around. The dishdrainer’s full of dishes, even the weird ones that he left in the sink two days ago to soak and then forgot about, like the hard-to-wash old griddle pan and the egg whisk. The counters look wiped, a fresh kitchen towel on the stove handle. There's a couple of grocery bags, neatly folded, and a stack of the only flavor of fizzy water that Louis likes (lemon) next to the stove. He can't be certain but he suspects that the floor's been swept.

“Harry,” Louis says, overwhelmed.

“You slept for so long,” Harry says, observationally, in a _good job_ sort of tone, chewing on the handle of a fork. It goes _clack clack_ against his teeth and that would normally be grounds for yelling because it's the most fucking annoying habit Harry has, but Louis is occupied with having emotions into his soup so hard he's worried he'll melt into it.

“Zayn never did my laundry when I got sick,” Louis says.

“Zayn never did a lot of things I do here,” Harry says, smirking. “You were out of meds too. You know you could've asked me to stop at the pharmacy for you, right?”

“There's delivery,” Louis says. The soup is making him feel even better, filling out the hollow space he hadn’t even realized was there. It’s chicken noodle and there’s the thin kind of noodles that he likes rather than the usual squares, and he wonders how Harry knew, _if_ Harry knew.

“Would delivery rub Vick's on your chest while you watch Star Trek?” Harry asks meaningfully.

“Maybe,” Louis says, fishing out a chicken cube and inspecting it, “If it's the same gay guy who delivers our Amazon packages? I'm a charming guy.”

Harry clutches his heart, scattering olives. Louis surprises himself with a laugh that starts fine but then turns into a little bit of a coughing fit. Harry springs up to measure a dose of orange syrup, which he administers while tugging gently at the ends of Louis’ wet hair.

“My little seducer,” he says.

Louis hacks some spit up into his soup, just to make Harry laugh, and it succeeds. It’s all in the timing. 

“You don't even like _Voyager,”_ Louis says when he’s settled, and the syrup seems to be doing its business, and Harry’s gotten a few ridiculous things out of his system like going to the bathroom and fetching Louis a random hairband that Zayn had left, to hold back his wet hair, and also brought slippers to put over his socks, as if the socks alone were unsatisfactory. Louis feels bundled and sleepy again.

“That's not true! I'm adapting!” Harry exclaims. Harry’s stayed at Louis’ end of the table, leaning onto it with his elbow, the other hand fingering gently at Louis’ thigh. It’s light and a tiny bit ticklish, but it makes Louis realize just how very much he’s missed Harry these few days. He leans his head to the side despite all the wet hair and the unattractive red nose and all. Harry moves in and Louis ends up snugged against him in all his bundled up, sick realness. 

“And what does it even matter?” Harry asks, quiet, and his chin resting on top of Louis’ head. “You’re the one who’s sick, you’re the one who likes it.”

“Well, it’s underrated. How did you know to come over?” Louis asks. Harry snorts, kisses the top of Louis' head and also flicks him on the ear. Louis tries to push Harry in retaliation and accidentally knocks his spoon off the table and splashes the soup. Harry snickers and grabs Louis’ flailing, noodly arm and just kisses the top of his head again.

“God,” Louis says, resigned.

“You hate being alone,” Harry says, “And you hate being alone when you’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” Louis says, “I’d be fine, I would’ve been totally fine.”

Harry snorts again, and picks Louis up, right off the stool. Louis would protest but it’s a pretty good feeling, all things considered, even if Harry does bang his ankle on the way to the bedroom.

“What’s that thing you always said when you were arguing about it with Zayn?” Harry says, contemplatively. “It’s underrated and you like it because they’re out there and they’re lost but, they’ve all got each other, don’t they.”

 

***

 

Louis takes a picture of Janeway’s _I need coffee_ face on the screen and puts it in a text to Zayn. He debates for too long about the message to go with. They talk all the time, about stupid stuff and normal stuff and what Zayn’s working on, Louis’ xbox gaming wins and the construction on the new restaurant that had only just started when Zayn moved out but Louis keeps him updated on it with a new picture every day. But they don’t really say stuff like this.

Still, he types _miss you when this is on_ and sends it before he can change his mind.

Three minutes past Janeway needing coffee, Voyager’s been beset by an alternate reality that makes Harry gasp and Louis grin, because Harry’s outsize and incredulous reactions to sci-fi are never, but never, going to lose their wonderfulness. Harry’s phone buzzes.

“It’s Zayn,” Harry says, sounding surprised.

“What the fuck, Zayn texted you and not me?” Louis says. Harry’s reading the text with a curled, warm twitch in his mouth. He holds the screen over to Louis. 

 _Apple cinnamon tea, load it up with honey,_ the text says. _Congrats on making it to the inner circle, he’ll try to convince you he’s better at least a full day before he really is, don’t let him out of bed._

“My mum and my _best friend,_ never gonna trust again,” Louis growls, into his hands, but he can’t maintain it because Harry’s pulled him back into the cuddle and anyway his own phone is buzzing and it’s Zayn, a very rare selfie of his face behind blurry blue sunglasses, looking happy in the sunshine and giving a wave. _When Harry says he wants you to move in, in a few months, you should believe him,_ it says. _Always miss you._

Louis glances at Harry. He’s changed fully out of his glamorous day clothes into the pajamas that he started leaving in Louis’ bottom dresser drawer. He looks a little more like evening Harry, like early morning Harry, like the Harry that only Louis gets to see, glasses and mussed hair and pillow creases in his cheek. He’s sprawled out on the bed, chewing his lip, concentrating on a show he never would’ve even considered watching in the normal run of things. 

“I love,” Louis says, “I love that you came over.”

It’s possible, he thinks, that Harry hears the beat of hesitation. Harry hears a lot of things that are there, and he’s capable of filling in a lot of things that aren’t there yet, but could be. Harry smiles, nudges Louis with his elbow, a familiar, teasing little tap.

“Hey, me too,” Harry says, adjusting Louis at his side, dragging a pillow into his back to support him at exactly the right angle, and managing to reach the tissues with his other hand and put them in reach. Louis sighs, long and luxurious. His throat has gone down to a low kind of sore and his eyelids are heavy again and everything feels like slow motion, patient and safe. 

The timer clicks down to the automatic start of the next episode. Louis flaps his hand inquiringly toward the remote, and Harry only settles in closer and nods. 

“Obviously yes,” he says. “I’ve got nowhere to be but here.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://helloamhere.tumblr.com/)
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>  
> 
> Here's [a fic post for this drabble](https://helloamhere.tumblr.com/post/173397431018/i-had-every-intention-of-this-being-a-drabble-but)


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